New Dreams
by Chandrakanta
Summary: A retelling of Vampyr if Myrddin took a bit more care with his progeny than abandoning his body in the street.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:

Vampyr and its characters are owned by DONTNOD Entertainment and Focus Home Interactive. I'm just having fun playing with the characters, both as a game and now with writing.

The title comes from Myrddin's poem, and the concept that the Red Queen's conflicts with Myrddin's Champions are the dreams meant to keep her quiet and asleep.

I want to give fair warning that I don't have an update schedule. I work full time and will write when I can, but the time I have for writing varies.

The idea I have for this story will include the major plot points of the game, but I also plan to expand on what we were given and make choices we were not able to make in the game. There will be some repetition for those who've played the game, but I will try to keep it to a minimum.

A few explanations of my thoughts, and potential spoilers below, be warned:

Mary lives in this story mostly because her canon placement in Southwark made no sense to me. With the state of the world at the time, Mary wouldn't have had time to miss Jonathan's arrival home, receive notice of his death, and pass through several quarantine zones as she searched multiple hospitals and gravesites for his body. Likewise, there will not be an accidentally turned vampire as that seemed just to be a plot device to gain Redgrave's attention by showing off how powerful Jonathan's blood was. I also do not anticipate writing a romance, especially not between Jonathan and Elizabeth. That seemed forced and awkward, not to mention sudden after only a handful semi-cordial conversations between the two.

* * *

Chapter 1

Doctor Jonathan Reid breathed in deep as he exited the ship he'd travelled on into Southwark. The stink of pollution and smog filled his nostrils, but it was still welcome after years surrounded by the scent of death and gunpowder. As awful as it was, it was still a scent to remind him he was much closer to his destination: home. It was quiet here after the turmoil of war, just a murmur of voices from other passengers and crew, clangs and groans of machinery, the gentle lapping of the river against the hull of the ship. No gunfire, no screams of the wounded, the gurgling gasps of the dying. Not right here anyway. He didn't delude himself to believe that would be the case in other parts of the city.

After having spent the last, interminably long, three years serving as a medical officer in the Great War, being back in London, no matter what district, was a relief to him. He looked longingly across the Thames in the general direction of his family home in West End, squinting against the glare of the setting sun reflecting from the water. It was a rare cloudless day, probably one of the last before winter took hold.

Jonathan took a moment to imagine his return home while he waited for the queue to disembark the ship. He thought about walking up the steps of the grand mansion and being greeted by Avery. Technically their butler, Avery may as well be family, like an uncle to him and his sister, Mary. He imagined seeing his sister and mother again. He smiled before he remembered the news from his sister's most recent correspondence to him. He thought of the emptiness without his brother-in-law and nephew adding their presence to the large house. Jonathan didn't know details, but knew from Mary's correspondence that her husband had been killed in the war and her son succumbed to illness.

It was yet another reason for him to return home now. His family had suffered too much loss in recent years and they needed him. He'd been luckier than most and, other than some superficial physical injuries, the damage he'd sustained in the war was entirely mental and spiritual.

Some police seized his attention, as well as the other passengers, and they briefly explained about the influenza outbreak that had struck the city the past summer, and the quarantine zones that had been put in place to slow the progress of the disease. It seems they would need to apply for passes through the quarantine zones, and there wasn't a straight path from Southwark to West End. Jonathan idly wondered how many zones he would need to go through to get home.

The newspapers hadn't said a thing about this! He knew Spain had been hit hard by an especially virulent influenza outbreak, but he hadn't read anything about it hitting England too. He knew from Mary that his nephew had died from the flu, and he'd wondered if it were perhaps the same strain, but there had been no official announcement. Even with his status as a doctor, he'd been kept ignorant until now.

If this was true, and he had no reason to disbelieve it, if the flu had spread here, the citizens should be informed about it! His plans shifted as he considered the implications of this outbreak. He would have to keep his visit home a short one and then apply to one of the local hospitals, whichever one was in most need, to offer his services. If it was anything like what he'd read Spain was dealing with, then the hospitals would need every able person to lend aid.

Surely his family would understand, especially after having already lost a family member to the disease. If he could prevent even one other family from experiencing the same loss, the effort would be worth it.

Jonathan joined the queue of other passengers who were applying for passes through quarantine zones before heading for the nearest inn to clean up and rest before continuing their journeys.

* * *

Jonathan secured lodging for the night at the famous George Inn and retreated to his room. While it was too late to make his way home, especially with the quarantine zones, he was restless from the voyage and not yet ready for sleep. He pondered the wisdom of taking a short walk before retiring.

This part of town had an unsavoury reputation, especially at night when criminals felt protected by the darkness hiding their misdeeds. Serving in the war had taught him how to fight, even kill when necessary, but his primary vocation was a healer and he'd rather avoid a fight if possible. If he stayed within the well-lit streets and didn't wander too far, he should be safe enough, he reasoned.

As a precaution, he armed himself with a Liston knife from his medical bag as well as his service pistol, before leaving the inn.

As he walked, he took in what he could see of this part of city. All signs of life, from when the ship had arrived until he checked into the inn, had disappeared. The cobblestone streets were deserted and eerily silent, the ambient sounds of modern civilization gone.

It was well into night by now, but still early enough that shoppers and pedestrians should still be out. Granted, he didn't know the habits of the citizens of Southwark like he knew West End, but he couldn't believe it to be this dissimilar.

A few automobiles were parked to the side, but none were in use. A glimpse down an alley showed him scattered trash, crates, and several barrels...more debris and refuse than he recalled from when he left for France a few years ago. Was this due to the war or the influenza? Both probably, and it was a clearer indication to him about the severity of the situation than quarantine zones and everything explained earlier.

He saw torn and faded war recruitment posters on the walls of buildings. Weeds were growing in clumps through the road, which weren't being maintained like he remembered them being when he departed for France.

On a whim, Jonathan turned down a side street into what appeared to be a residential area. He didn't have to go far before he stopped, consumed by dread at this evidence of just how bad the situation in London was. Just a short distance ahead, he saw a house with boarded up windows and graffiti on the door. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of the large white X and large block letters spelling out FLU. It wasn't the only house afflicted in this neighbourhood either. Some graffiti differed, like some with the words "KEEP OUT" on the door, but they all conveyed the same message: these residents had all been afflicted, and possibly died, from this influenza outbreak.

He couldn't bear seeing more of the same without being able to help to help anyone he might encounter and so, with a heavy heart, turned around to return to the inn. He'd only travelled a couple blocks before he heard a nearby voice that caused him to pause again. It was male and seemed to resonate around him. He couldn't tell where it was coming from.

"'Twelve dreams for the Red Queen who sleeps under crown of stone, that she might linger longer with her eyes kept closed.'"

"Who goes there?" Jonathan called out warily, striding forward again, staying as close to the flickering street lights as he could.

"'Eleven thorns blooming from her troubled brow, awaiting the next harvest to be gleaned at brisk springs.'"

"Who's there?" Jonathan asked again. Looking around, he couldn't see anyone. The street seemed just as deserted as ever, except for the voice.

"'Ten copper veins ripped from the belly of the earth, melted into tears flowing towards banished brothers. Nine glorious pyres on the scorched plain, to punish those whose hands were slow to obey.'"

Shaking his head in confusion—understanding poetry was never one of Jonathan's gifts—he concluded the man speaking was unlikely to be a threat and continued his way to the inn.

"'Eight voracious beasts born from eight restless nights, their backs hardened by their race with the sun. Seven notes of warning in the summer sky compelling child to shielded sheets of sleep. Six watchers bent on the hunting trails; shadows of their spears trace the tired furrows.'"

Irritated with the voice now, and still wary despite his logic, Jonathan looked around again to see if he could spot the speaker anywhere, but his efforts yielded nothing.

"'Five houses to fall before song's end, then five more reborn from their blackened ashes. Four nails piercing the flesh of the sinner, restlessly hung to the dark wood of his crimes.'"

Feeling more and more worried—no matter how far he had walked the voice kept pace with him—Jonathan sped up. He was walking swiftly now, almost jogging.

"'Three books scribbled by pen of the dancer who refuses to answer the call of the abyss. Two giant rival snakes slither in ageless forest, coiled to the bones of mortals destined for the grave.'"

"Who are you? What do you want?" Jonathan called out.

"'One prayer for the summoned called by this song, a child born from darkness whose path he must find.'"

"Are you speaking to me?"

All was silent now. The mysterious voice had stopped reciting its insane poem. Unnerved, Jonathan grasped his pistol and spun around, still trying in vain to catch sight of the man. Without warning—he hadn't heard a sound, no footsteps, no breathing, and definitely no further speaking—he felt a hand on his head, wrenching it to the side, followed by a sharp pain. He struggled furiously to get out of his assailant's hold, but his efforts proved futile. He felt himself growing weaker and weaker, lightheaded, and his vision began to dim.

His assailant was killing him. How ironic was this? He had survived war, only to just barely make it home before being murdered in the dark. He would never see his family again, or help in the current crisis, or have the opportunity to advance medical science more than he already had.

"No, no! There's still so much I want to accomplish!" was his final thought before he lost consciousness.

* * *

Jonathan awoke an indeterminate time later to the same mysterious voice, only it seemed to be resounding inside his head rather than outside.

"Death... since the apple was plucked from the sacred tree, mortality was believed to be God's punishment... a righteous snare to keep mankind from ascending to the stars. They were all so wrong. Death is not a wicked thing, nor some holy retribution. A true punishment would be to never know its sweet kiss. Awaken from the harshness and be born once more."

He felt terrible; his body was weak and he felt a burning thirst, worse than anything his memory could conjure up. He could barely think past the awful sensation. Opening his eyes didn't help. Everything was grey and out of focus. What was wrong with him?

"Where am I? What's happening to me?" he rasped aloud.

He tried thinking back to what could have happened to leave him in this state, but all he could concentrate on was the terrible burn of his thirst. He needed water, something to quench the desperate thirst so he could think again.

Stumbling to his feet, Jonathan tried to get his bearings but failed. The world around him was still indistinct, grey and blurry. He couldn't make out anything in his surroundings that made any sense to his befuddled mind. He reached out with his hands and felt a rough wall next to him.

Using the wall as a guide, he took a few faltering steps forward but tripped on something he'd failed to see. Instinctively his hands pushed in front of him to brace his fall, but instead of hard, unforgiving ground they encountered something soft, wet, and sticky. He looked down and gasped. He still couldn't see right, but it was enough to make out several bodies below him.

Where was he? He moved to stand again and his fingers snagged on something as he pulled back. He was distracted from investigating the object in his hand by a noise to his right. There was a lot of clattering—something wooden by the sound of it—some shuffling, followed by heavy footsteps, harsh breathing, and a dragging sound.

His eyes immediately snapped to the first spot of colour he'd seen in his current monochrome world: a bright, vivid, pulsating crimson. The bright red was moving towards him, followed by a dull, darker red close to the ground.

An alluring scent came to him next, and all rational thought—little as there was with the burning thirst consuming him—fled. A predator's instinct took over, and he silently moved back to a darker corner where his prey could not see him.

His prey, vivid crimson and drawing closer, turned away and heaved its burden, the darker red, onto the pile of bodies Jonathan had stumbled over. Seeing the opportunity, his body acted on its own volition and he leapt forward, grabbing the vermilion figure in his strong grip. Claws burst forth from his fingers, digging into tender flesh, ensuring his prey could not escape him. His mouth settled over the jugular and he bit down, his new fangs extending and easily piercing the skin.

Hot liquid spilled into his parched mouth and throat, immediately soothing the burning thirst. It was pure euphoria. It was the best thing he could ever remember tasting. The mythical ambrosia couldn't be better. He felt complete ecstasy and satiation as he drank greedily.

Jonathan saw flashes of images as he drank. He saw a tall, thin man he didn't know lovingly tending his elderly mother, then leaving their house enraged and finding a stranger to murder and calm his demons. His mother doted on a young orphan nearby and the sight of it set his fury alight once more and he vented that rage on the next person he met. His inner demons calmed and became quiet again. He saw the man dragging his victims to a hideout beneath the docks.

As the flow of soothing fluid slowed, Jonathan heard the man's voice in his head. "So this is what it feels like to die at someone's hand. I had no idea... I'm... I'm sorry."

Jonathan pulled back, clarity returning to his mind, along with full colour to his vision, and with it the euphoria, caused by what he now realized to be blood revitalizing his body, turned to shame as he realized what he'd done. Was he now some kind of... of vampire?! No, that was ridiculous, it was impossible. He must be experiencing some kind of bizarre nightmare brought on by lingering trauma from the war. It felt too real to be mere manifestations from his mind, though.

He reeled as he looked down at the body of the man he'd just killed. It wasn't the first time he'd killed someone. It was the first like this though. All other times had been in defence, of himself or his colleagues or comrades, or most regrettable, before now, due to mistakes he had made as a physician and scientist.

The man had been a monster, killing randomly and compulsively. He never would have stopped on his own, and would have been executed if the police had ever found him. Still, Jonathan was a doctor. He'd taken an oath to do no harm. Of course, that line had already been crossed far too often for his liking due to his service in the war.

"You must drink, my childe." The voice was in his head. It took Jonathan to recall it as the voice from Southwark, the one reciting the poem. Is he the one who turned him into this? Why? How? "Rotten or pristine, each heart contains the seeds of life."

Jonathan understood the message this time. If it was true that he was a vampire now—and no matter how impossible that seemed yesterday, the evidence now showed otherwise—then he would have to drink blood. The penny dreadfuls seemed to indicate that was the case anyway.

If he had to kill people—no matter how distasteful the thought was to his mind, his body now craved the life-giving substance, more than craved... it needed with a ferocity he'd never before experienced—it was better if he could at least make the streets a little safer by hunting humans that were as monstrous as it seemed he was now. He would have to experiment though. Did he have to kill? Could he just take a little, or drink from donated blood? Did the blood have to be human? If it did have to be human and if did have to kill, well... the city had no shortage of human monsters who managed to evade justice.

He wondered what his next course of action should be. Before all this, he had planned to return home to his mother and sister, and then to volunteer at one of the local hospitals and help with the epidemic. That seemed so long ago now. Idly Jonathan wondered how long it had been since he had disembarked the ship from Southwark.

He felt a tug on his hand and looked down, recalling the object he'd found on the body earlier, before the man showed up to dispose the body of his latest victim. He brought the object closer to his face to look at it. It was a necklace, with a bloody note attached to it. It seemed that the necklace had been intended as gift from the man he'd just killed, who was called Seymour, to his mother.

He had a direction for tonight at least. He didn't know what the future would bring, but for now he could deliver this final gift to its recipient. It was the least he could do after taking her son from her.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Most of the dialogue between Myrddin and Jonathan from the game takes place in this chapter. It just seemed right for me and the direction I'm taking. I'm not a doctor, scientist, or historian, so please forgive me if I make mistakes with anything regarding medical terms. I did some research, but won't swear to complete accuracy.

* * *

Jonathan looked down at Seymour Fishburn, considering his options. His emotions were mixed. Part of him felt satisfaction in removing an unrepentant killer from the streets, for making this part of the city slightly safer. The part of him that was a doctor, however, who had taken an oath to treat everyone equally as healer, felt guilt and remorse. The man had been a murderer many times over, and if he'd been discovered by the authorities he would have been executed, but he was still someone's beloved son. He'd seen enough from the memories he'd received while drinking the man's blood—and how was that even possible?!—that the man had honestly loved his mother and she had loved him.

"Remorse and pain are precious when binding you to the earth."

The voice was external rather than internal this time and Jonathan looked around for the source. To his shock he saw a being only vaguely human in form. It didn't appear to have an actual body, but seemed to be composed entirely of blood. It was bipedal and had a humanoid face, but it had four long, curving horns rising from the top of its head. Jonathan took a cautious step back, wary of what this creature could be capable of.

"Fear be gone! I would harm no childe of my making."

Jonathan forced himself to relax and stand his ground. This creature had already killed him once if the stories were anything to go by. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating steadily, albeit somewhat slower than would be considered an average resting heartrate. So maybe he hadn't actually been killed, but this entity had somehow done something to change Jonathan into a…a vampire, for lack of a better word.

He didn't understand any of this. Maybe there was a scientific explanation for what happened to him, but it all just seemed so impossible. He saw it, and felt it, but… he just couldn't wrap his scientific mind around it yet. Even if vampires—oh, how his scientist's mind hated that word, but he didn't have a better one yet—could be eventually understood, what possible explanation could there be for a creature composed of blood?

Well, panicking wouldn't help his understanding. First, he would try to get what answers he could from this entity. Then, later, he'd try to gain access to a laboratory somewhere so he could study his blood and hopefully find some answers. Would he even be able to stand being in a hospital, surrounded by blood anymore, without losing control and going on a killing spree? Time would tell, but it worried him. His reaction upon seeing and smelling Seymour, even when the man wasn't wounded, was discouraging.

"You…you're the one who did this to me? What are you?" he finally asked the mysterious entity who had upended his life.

"I am the land. I am the whitened bones and the blackened soil. The land made blood coursing through thy veins."

Jonathan sighed. More poetry and riddles. Mary was much better at deciphering this kind of language than he was. He took mental notes to refer back to. Maybe with time and experience he would understand better.

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"I am your Maker. I am the servant of the Red Goddess and protector of this land. I have many names."

"Just give me one then."

"There are those who call me Myrddin Wyltt, the wild horned man. But I never was a man. I was born out of blood."

Myrddin? As in the original Merlin of Arthurian legend? Of course this creature could just be using the name to make himself seem more important, but… something deep within Jonathan, some instinct, told him the being before him was ancient. Ancient and powerful. If he really _was_ Myrddin of legend, how much of the story about Arthur and Merlin was real and how much fiction? Well, one thing he knew to be false if this being really was "Merlin". He definitely _wasn't_ a kindly old wizard.

"Is this your true appearance? Are you actually made of blood?"

"This is who I am. I'm not made of blood. I am blood. Blood is what I am, since my birth and for eternity."

Jonathan still didn't understand but believed any further conversation on this subject would go around in circles or contain incomprehensible riddles. He recalled that in some of the most ancient stories about Myrddin, he was referred to as a mad bard. With this brief example, he could agree to that description more than the wizard story.

"Why did you do this to me?" he demanded, maintaining his calm with difficulty. He was furious to have had his life altered so radically, especially without his consent. He wanted to keep this creature talking, though, and suspected any displays of temper would be detrimental to that.

"You are our champion."

"Champion?" Jonathan asked. It sounds like he wasn't randomly attacked then. "You mean you deliberately chose me for something? What am I supposed to be your champion for?"

"This age is sickly. An ancient poison, an older rage. Brewed in a cauldron newly forged."

_A sickness…_ "This has something to do with the epidemic?" No, it must be more than just the epidemic. The epidemic was natural, but Myrddin's words seemed to indicate something manufactured, probably in a laboratory as some kind of experiment, was the cause of the problem he was supposed to be a "champion" for.

"Seek truth, my champion. Defeat the serpent of knowing with iron spur."

Jonathan shook his head. He definitely intended to find out the truth of whatever was happening. Whether Myrddin spoke truth or not, he would discover.

"Why did you choose me?"

"Only you can provide a modern, scientific answer to this ancient, mystical threat."

_Because I'm a doctor or because I'm a haematologist?_ Jonathan wondered.

"What kind of modern answer?" he asked aloud.

"Disease, contagion, and contamination. How they course through veins is your dominion, my childe. Your choices will make you. Only you can save this land."

A bit of both then. His knowledge of blood would be invaluable, but he would be needed as a doctor as well by the sound of it. He would have to overcome this damned thirst, sooner rather than later.

"Speak to me of this ancient threat."

"The blood of hate. Vessel of the wrath of the goddess. When she awakens, a Disaster will be born into this world, for she is hunger and anger."

"What is the blood of hate?"

"It's the curse of the Goddess. It's the hunger in you. The need for blood. The will to strike and to punish; to spit in the eye of God."

Hmm… Myrddin called it a curse, but earlier he spoke about diseases and contamination. So, this "blood of hate" was a disease, a contaminant or virus, that affected vampires? That was both interesting and disturbing. From his brief example, the "normal" need for blood was bad enough. He could feel something in him even now that would revel in violence if he allowed it free rein. He didn't want to imagine something worse than that. Going by the name, he assumed whatever it was specifically affected the hypothalamus. He'd need to brush up on virology and neuroscience to fight effectively against this threat. He knew the basics, but it wasn't his field of study.

"And what is this Disaster you speak of?"

"A Disaster is pure anger born through blood. Its name means bad star, for they only appear when our Queen unleashes her unquenchable wrath upon the world. It is the pure will of our Queen. Whenever she dreams of walking this Earth she awakes in this vessel."

"And who is this Queen?"

"She is the Red Goddess, the Queen of Blood. In my youth, a hundred lifetimes ago, she was worshipped as the Morrigan. She is my mother. She is yours too."

"The Morrigan? The Celtic goddess of war?" Jonathan exclaimed, shocked. How many myths that had been dismissed in this modern age had roots in something real, if unbelievable to the rational mind?

"She has been worshipped in many forms throughout the ages. The true nature of the Red Queen is beyond your comprehension, eluding even mine. But know this, she is a vengeful mother."

Jonathan shook his head, deciding to reflect on this information later. He was still angry with Myrddin for what he had done to him, but the fact—if he were to be believed—that he had done it to help the people of London, and possibly even beyond, kept him from lashing out. A petty part of him wanted to refuse to be this creature's champion, but in his heart he knew he wouldn't. He wouldn't do so for Myrddin, but if he had a chance of stopping this disease, this blood of hate, and therefore help people, then he would.

"Thank you for speaking with me," Jonathan finally said. "If this 'blood of hate' you speak of is a disease, then there's a remedy. I will find it."

Myrddin nodded and faded away, as if he'd never been there at all. Jonathan wondered if he had, or if he'd been some sort of mental projection, a hallucination even. He shook his head again; too many questions and too few answers.

Collecting himself, he took a look around the hideout. There were two small alcoves, one filled with the piled bodies and the other with a chest, a short hall between them leading away towards an exit.

It seemed wrong to just leave the bodies here, lost and unlamented. Any family or friends they might have probably assumed they were dead, but without a body, they wouldn't know for sure and couldn't properly grieve.

What should he do? The simplest solution would be to report that he'd found the place to the authorities and then let them deal with it from there. He'd have to ensure that they wouldn't suspect him though.

He looked more closely at Seymour and found the puncture marks from his fangs in his neck, above the jugular vein. He should probably disguise those. He patted the pockets of his coat and found he still had his wallet—including the quarantine passes, thankfully—as well as his pistol and Liston knife he'd armed himself with. Little good they'd done against Myrddin, but they could still be useful against any other enemies he might face. Something told him that he'd need to defend himself and would have need of these weapons soon. He wondered how long it had been since he took that walk. Was it just last night, or had it been longer?

He thought about using the Liston knife to disguise the wounds on Seymour, but soon discarded the idea. He didn't believe Seymour's death would be thoroughly investigated, if it all, but it would be best to leave off any evidence linking back to a doctor, which a Liston knife would give.

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He dimly remembered having claws somehow when he'd attacked Seymour, but his hands looked normal now, if still a bit bloody.

Allowing himself to feel just a bit of the predatory instinct he'd felt earlier had the claws emerging, almost like a cat's, but not quite, since these claws extended over his normal fingernails rather than his nails lengthening. Fully extended, the claws were perhaps an inch long, with a slight curve, and looked very sharp. They would do. Grimacing, he reached down and raked the claws of one hand across the puncture wounds on Seymour's body. Any doctor who knew his craft would be able to tell the wounds were post-mortem, but they couldn't be matched to any man-made weapon, which was what Jonathan wanted.

Grisly task done, Jonathan swept his gaze around to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything before leaving the illicit gravesite for the beach along the Thames. Upon emerging into the open he was at first startled by how bright the night was to him now, almost as bright as day. Upon reflection he supposed it made sense that, as a presumably nocturnal creature now, his eyes would have altered accordingly to see as well in the dark as diurnal creatures see during the day.

He wondered how his eyes had changed. He doubted they'd increased in size; it would make vampires more noticeable if so. His pupils probably widened more than what would be normal for a human, and perhaps the tapetum lucidum was more developed. He'd have to be careful to keep his eyes down or shielded if he met anyone somewhere that was not well lit, just in case. He'd rather avoid any questions that might crop up.

In addition to the night vision, now that his vision wasn't clouded by thirst, he could see better than ever. The details and colours were astounding, much better than his sight in full daylight before. His other senses were just as enhanced. His sense of smell was inundated. It was especially attuned to blood now, and he detected that sweet scent he recalled from Seymour amid the rank stench of refuse, sewage, fish, rotting bodies... the scents kept adding up as he concentrated and he stopped, rubbing at his nose, unable to take any more. He hoped he could learn to ignore it soon.

His hearing was also much better than he remembered. He could hear the people moving around in their homes, their hearts beating, murmurs of voices, babies crying, and... coughing. The coughs could be for something minor, but he was forcefully reminded about the outbreak of influenza he'd learned about upon his arrival in London.

He headed for the river and dipped his hands in to clean them of the blood. Looking into the water, he dispelled another vampire myth when he caught sight of his reflection. Yes, his eyes looked normal, except for the pupils. There wasn't enough light near him to tell if the tapetum lucidum was reflecting more light than normal, though, so he'd have to be wary until he knew one way or another.

Noting the blood on his face and neck, he cleaned up, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket to aid his task. After he was cleaned as best he could with the limited supplies at hand, he stood and looked around to get his bearings.

He spotted one of the Southwark bridges, but looking at other landmarks determined he was on the opposite side, somewhere in the docks. He was actually much closer to West End. He knew there was a gate somewhere between the East End docks and West End, but he had no idea where. He'd always avoided this part of town before.

Before moving on, Jonathan decided to become more acquainted with any further changes in his body. There were the retractable claws and fangs, enhanced senses, the overpowering thirst for blood, but what else? The stories weren't entirely reliable as a source, and he'd never read much of the literature anyway. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall anything of vampire lore he'd read over the years.

Vampires drank blood. That was definitely true. He still remembered the flavour on his tongue, the soothing of his thirst, and shivered in pleasure rather than revulsion at the memory. As much as his mind castigated him for what he had done, he couldn't deny the desire for more. He would have to overcome this craving, tame it somehow, for he needed to return to work. Being a doctor was who he is, not merely what he does, and refused to let this affliction keep him from his calling for long. Besides that, it sounded like the task Myrddin turned him to accomplish would require access to a hospital and laboratory equipment.

Vampires were the reanimated dead… he was unsure, but had doubts about the veracity of that theory. He remembered when he was attacked by Myrddin and thinking that he was dying, but now his heart still beat within his chest and he still breathed. He was different, there was no denying it, but was he dead, or rather undead, or merely a different lifeform? He'd need time and more data to reach a satisfactory conclusion regarding that, but right now he leaned towards the latter.

Regarding time, the myths would indicate he had plenty of it now since vampires were supposedly immortal. That was something else that could only be proved or disproved over time. However, he could test… Jonathan pulled his Liston knife out and carefully drew the blade across his hand. He wiped away the welling blood and watched in fascination as the skin knit back together and healed without even a slight scar within a matter of moments. Well, with this level of rapid healing he could understand how the aging process could be diminished into virtual nonexistence. Almost as soon as the cells would deteriorate, they would be repaired back into a healthy state again.

He recalled something about vampires being repelled by holy items and so-called sacred ground. It seemed ridiculous, though, and he had no way to test it. He wasn't religious and didn't carry any crosses or similar items with him.

He'd already disproved the story about vampires lacking reflections. The only other myth he could recall was about vampires being repelled by garlic. Well, he didn't have any to test himself with, but considering how enhanced his senses had become, he could understand being repelled by the scent alone. It was strong enough to a human sense of smell, let alone what he now possessed.

Unable to think of anything else to test here and now, Jonathan climbed some steps leading from this part of the beach to the docks and recognized some of the buildings from Seymour's memories. Walking through them he found the door to what he believed to be Seymour's home with his mother, but now he hesitated. He didn't want to harm the woman. Would he be able to control himself? Other vampires must be able to, or they wouldn't just be the object of stories, but well known by all. He was a strong willed man and he would overcome this… affliction.

Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, he knocked on the door.


End file.
